


The Widow is Dead

by Aisu



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Murder, Team Talon (Overwatch), bad descriptions of ballet, vague heterosexuality i suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 23:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14436237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisu/pseuds/Aisu
Summary: Amelie Lacroix is gone. Odette has fallen. The show is ended. Odile is all that remains.A day in the life of Widowmaker. Short, introspective.





	The Widow is Dead

_The curtain rises. The spotlights come on. Odette steps onto the stage, graceful, illuminated, beautiful under the lights. One-two, one-two, twirling, elegant, feathers almost glowing._

_But the dance is wrong. The stage is wrong. There’s no music, just the rhythm of her feet as she dances and glides towards where the prince should be waiting._

_In the dark, outside the ring of the spotlight, there’s something laying on the stage. Odette dances by it, unseeing, and her delicate steps leave spots of blood on the polished wood._

_When she looks down at last, she falters, pauses, and then she wails._

_She falls, hard, feathers falling around her, white and beautiful except for the traces of blood red._

_For a while, there is silence. And then another set of footsteps, matching the first--_

Widowmaker awakens all at once, staring up at the distant ceiling of the bedroom. For a moment, she can half-place the dream, but it’s already fading fast. Pulling away into the fog. She stays where she is for a moment more, half-trying to recall it, then pushes herself up.

Waking up in the chateau is still strange in a way she cannot place (the beds too small and too large all at once, the sunlight far too harsh through the windows), but it doesn’t matter.

She dresses (simpler clothing, here) and heads out into the hallways, following her daily routine as it’s been set for her. Nutrition first. They say she’s stable enough that she can have what she wants as long as she supplements it with the proper nutrients, but it’s hard to think of cooking and it’s too early for wine.

Moira is already in the dining room, settled at the table with her back to the grand window, leaning back precariously in her chair with her feet on the table.

“Shoes off,” Widowmaker says, almost on reflex at this point, as she heads to the fridge she’s stored the basic meal packs in.

“Or?” Moira asks, sipping her coffee and shifting in her chair (which creaks worryingly).

“Or I will remove your legs.”

Moira chuckles, but obliges, swinging her legs down and sitting in something more approximating a normal posture. That dealt with, Widowmaker kneels down, rummaging through the fridge.

“I read through your project files recently,” Moira says, and Widowmaker pauses.

“Your point?” she says at last, calm. Even.

“Apparently most of the researchers involved initially have been… reassigned. Vialli had the most arcane priorities…” Moira sighs. “In any case, I suspect the doctors treating you now have mostly focused on biological stability.”

“And why do you think that?” Widowmaker asks, glancing back at Moira at last.

“Quite frankly, you weren’t exactly meant to be talking back to me.” Moira smirks at her. “They had more the ‘silent combat droid’ in mind for you. Certainly they didn’t intend for you to, say, had any views on where our French outpost should be… let alone the views you had.”

Widowmaker stands straighter, eyes narrow. “It was a logical choice. Remote. Unobserved.”

“And I’m not denying that. The fact remains that the way the original plan was written up, you should be sitting in a room somewhere waiting for orders.” Another shrug.

Widowmaker pauses a moment more, then says, hesitant, “And what do you plan to do?”

“Me? Nothing. It wasn’t my project.” Moira glances at her, grinning wide. “And I find myself more fond of the woman that will tell me to stop damaging her furniture.”

Widowmaker nods, once. Expression betraying nothing at all. “…I see.”

Moira leans back again, and Widowmaker tries to not wince as the wood creaks. “Excellent. Now, come sit and eat your sludge and we can have a civilized breakfast.”

\---

Training, after breakfast. She finds a spot on the roof and settles in among the gables, rifle settled on her shoulder. Through the scope, she tracks passing birds, distant ships, and the movements of the handful of Talon staff on-site as they walk through the grounds.

She recognizes a few of the unmasked figures too well. Lingers just a little longer with the crosshairs overlapped over their heads. But in the end, she always pulls back.

There’s a noise like a rush of wind behind her, and she sighs and lowers the rifle without turning. “I’m busy.”

Reaper moves next to her, crouching down. “You don’t have to stop. I just could use some time away from the doctor.”

Widowmaker half-smirks at that. “And so you decide to irritate me instead?"

“Trust me. It’d be hard for me to be half as irritating as her.” A shrug. “I can be a spotter, if you need me to earn my stay.”

“A man who wields a weapon that relies on blind faith and being inches from their target would be of little help.” She raises the scope again, drawing a bead on one of the seagulls up ahead.

Reaper snorts. “Preferring shotguns doesn’t mean I’m blind. I used to spot for Ana and Ge--”

He catches himself after the first syllable, trailing off into nothing.

Widowmaker watches the white bird as it circles, keeping the scope perfectly overlaid. Saying nothing.

For a few moments, there’s silence, and then Reaper speaks again, more halting, less sure, despite the growl. “I--” He sighs. “Amelie. Listen. We need to talk about this someday. I don’t know if you’re--”

She shoots, once, missing the seagull by a wide margin, but the noise is more than enough to make Reaper stop.

“Unfortunate. I missed.” She stands, slowly. “I’ll try again at a later occasion, when I have some proper peace and quiet.”

Before Reaper can say anything else, she’s leaping off the roof.

\---

In the wine cellar, at least, she’s rarely disturbed. Most of the Talon staff stick to the building above. She’d prefer a proper training room, but the old dance studio has been retrofitted into more temporary quarters.

It doesn’t bother her.

Stretches, first. The tingle in her fingers and toes is back - one of the side effects of her treatment is that it’s all too easy for her limbs to fall asleep, and there’s some risk that if she doesn’t help the blood flow that more permanent damage could result. The regular exercise schedule is part of the solution.

It’s almost funny. They’ve made a sniper that can’t stay still.

She barely notices as she moves from the more rigid exercise plan to something else. She raises her feet a bit, moving across the room step by step. Start cou-de-pied right foot, shifting as she moves horizontally - one-two, one-two, one-two, one-two - count twice - she jumps, lands gracefully--

“Oh, hey, there you are!” a voice calls.

Widowmaker straightens again, lowering her leg. “Busy.”

Sombra shrugs, poking around the corner. “Sorry, but duty calls. We’ve got a window on the target we’re out here for. Your services are called for.”

Widowmaker stares at Sombra for a moment, then shrugs, going to grab her rifle. “Fine.”

“Pissy today, huh? Moira was saying you gave her hell this morning.” Sombra grins. “Not that I mind.”

Widowmaker shrugs, heading for the stairs. “I don’t get… ‘pissy’.”

Sombra follows after, shaking her head. “You’re seriously still keeping up that act, huh?”

“What act?”

Sombra forces herself to stand straighter, sticking out her chest in a ridiculous way and putting on a mimicry of a ‘stern’ expression. “Oh, I am ze Widowmaker, I feel nothing at all, my heart does not beat, now let me talk about how emotionless I am in ze most overdramatic fashion possible for an hour!”

“Never perform that ridiculous imitation of a French accent again.”

“That’s what I mean!” Sombra shrugs, dropping back into her regular stance. “Look. It might be fooling the Talon techs, but they’re idiots. You don’t have to do it around me. You can just be yourself! Have some fun! You’re the only one who can keep up with my sarcasm half the time, so--”

The helicopter is already waiting when they step out into the sun. Widowmaker heads for it, not glancing back.

“It’s not an act,” she says aloud as she climbs into one of the seats.

“Jeez.” Sombra pouts, pulling herself in next to her. “Relax for once, Am--”

“Stop calling me that,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

Sombra glances over at her for a moment, wide-eyed, then laughs and looks away. “Fine, fine. I get the picture. No more chatter.”

That only lasts for a few minutes after takeoff, but when Sombra finally does resume, it’s just to start bragging about how easily hacked she found the target’s security systems to be.

Widowmaker tunes her out, staring out at the ocean below.

\---

She knows.

She’s settled at a window in an abandoned building, rifle in front of her. The target is due to pass below in a car in a few minutes. The angles are clear, the route is certain, the driver a planted agent. An easy job.

She knows this isn’t how she was. When she’d first been made, there had been - nothing. Just the feel of the rifle in her hands and the faint satisfied buzz when she followed orders. The rest had filtered in piece by piece.

She adjusts the rifle, slowly. Makes sure it’ll be ready. Scans the streets below.

But it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. Amelie has to be gone, buried. Whatever she is now, it isn’t her. The widow is dead, and the widowmaker is left behind.

There. A black car, drawing closer. She leans in to the scope, planning the trajectory. Counting the slow, slow beats of the heart.

Because if Amelie were not dead--

A clear angle.

\--if she’s still alive--

A single shot. A clean blow. And with it, a sick, sweet pleasure and sense of triumph.

\--then the widow is a monster.

And that cannot be right.

Widowmaker leans back, takes a moment to steady herself, and heads for extraction without a second thought.

\---

_Odile approaches the fallen figure, her steps forceful, delicate in the way of a knife carving smoothly through flesh. The feathers have formed a bed for Odette, cradling her in white._

_“Get up,” she says, cold. “Face what you’ve done. The Prince is dead, and the show is ended, and it is on your hands. Get up.”_

_Odette lays still, beautiful. Innocent. Anguish wrought across her still face, still, the graceful agony of a woman forever in mourning._

_“Get_ up _,” Odile demands, black feathers falling from her mouth, from her back, from all of her. “Face it. Face_ me _. You cannot have him back, but you could have vengeance. You could turn the knife they made you against me. You could do anything. Just stand.”_

_Where the black feathers fall, they discolor the white, a spreading corruption. Odette is sinking deeper, gently, soundlessly. Motionless._

_“Don’t leave me to be this,” Odile begs, voice cracking._

_There’s no reply._

_The stage is empty but for Odile and the pile of black feathers. Just as it has always been._

_The house lights come on. The audience applauds. Odile bows as the dead prince sits up to cheer for her._

_She smiles, distant, and accepts the praise for the only role left._

**Author's Note:**

> Some variant of this has been burned into my brain for a while. I finally got it down on paper.


End file.
